


The Master and the Student

by gypsyweaver



Series: A Tale of Crowns and Coins [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23694754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsyweaver/pseuds/gypsyweaver
Summary: Ostensibly concerned for his one-time charge, Israfil pays a visit to Remiel in New Orleans.
Relationships: Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Raphael (Good Omens)
Series: A Tale of Crowns and Coins [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684990
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	The Master and the Student

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Implied/referenced abuse (nothing graphic, but it's there), deadnaming, Tubthumper
> 
> Remiel is Beelzebub, in case this is your first foray into this series. Or my work, in general.

New Orleans, 3/18/2020, 11:45 AM

* * *

He landed in the courtyard. Inasmuch as he had any expectations for what kind of place he would find Remiel in, this was not it. The house was a rambling Victorian, not in shades of black and red, but in the stormy blues that they had favored as Ba’al Zebul. The wraparound porch was decorated with Baroque touches--flowers and insects beautifully wrought in wood or iron. Plants hung from the posts of the porch. Baskets exploded with fuschia, Impatiens, and Christmas cactus.

The brick courtyard boasted a lovely cement fountain, water burbling out of a bouquet of lilies, with other flowers assembled around it. The basin was deep, hip height on him, and a few large goldfish swam there. A very fat ginger cat with one ear docked sprawled across the lip of the fountain, idly batting at the water. He laid a lazy golden eye upon the intruder, assessed him as not a threat, and went back to his play.

There were clay and copper pots all around the courtyard, growing all kinds of plants. Flowers bloomed and small berry bushes fruited, some that he hadn’t seen since Eden. A very small tree, shorter than he was, bloomed with apple blossom. The scent hit him, heady and light. The scent of a very particular apple, and he knew--as he had always known--that Remiel was dangerously clever.

A small grotto was surrounded by tea roses and catmint. More cats with docked ears lounged there, one at the feet of the virgin. The grotto was concrete, cast with roses and lilies. The virgin herself was carved marble, unpainted. He knew that the statue wasn’t some generic woman. That barefoot statue wore the face of Mary as a young teen, grinning winsomely at her feline companions.

He could hear a party--a very loud party--either just picking up in time for lunch, or still in full swing from last night. It couldn’t be more than two or three doors down. The assembled sang unintelligibly to an unintelligible song. It was “Tubthumper” -- a song whose relevancy waxed and waned in the twenty-plus years since it was released.

He’d never known a group of people as eager to send themselves to Hell as the denizens of New Orleans. At least, not since Ekron.

It would shock his brothers and sisters to know that he was as conversant with the comings and goings of mortals as he was. That he kept up with human trends, that he had a passion for their art and music. That he even knew about Ekron, or cared what happened to it.

Well, he did care. There was precisely one reason that he cared what happened to Ekron, and that reason was in this house.

“Heads or tails?” he had asked, in the Garden.

“What does that even mean?” they had replied.

They had smiled at him. Guileless and innocent. They trusted him.

Good God, he was a monster.

Everything bad that happened to them after that moment was his fault. His fear and his weakness allowed him to do what he did.

He didn’t even know if they’d want to see him. He wouldn’t, had their situations been reversed.

Still, he had to know if what Sandalphon had revealed was true. He climbed the porch stairs and knocked on the back door, before his courage left him. He waited.

Time passed. The ginger cat left the fountain and somehow managed to haul his impressive girth over the fence. A bird called for its mate. Iron-grey thunderheads loped heavily across the sky, threatening rain for the afternoon.

A light came on behind the translucent stained glass panes that surrounded the back door. Now that it was lit, he could see the flowers and insects that populated the window. A shadow appeared at the door, and through the leaded glass wings of a fly, blue eyes peered out at him from a moonlight-pale face.

He heard the deadbolt unlock and the door opened.

Remiel stood there in a black silk robe. They’d been forced to change their corporation, but he already knew that. In spite of six millennia as a demon, in spite of Sandalphon’s forced feminization of them, it was still his sweet Remiel.

They clasped their hands and lowered their head. He did not deserve their reverence.

“Israfil,” they said, softly. “Master...”

“May I come in?” he asked.

Remiel nodded and bowed again, stepping aside and allowing him to pass into the kitchen.

“Please, Master,” they said, their voice soft and thick with pain. “Please...don’t take him from me.”

Israfil regarded them, wide-eyed and frightened in the streaming sunlight of their kitchen. “Is that what you think I’m here for?”

“What else could I possibly have that you would want or need?” Remiel replied. “I’m sure you’ve seen the state that I left Sandalphon and Nuriel in. I assume you were sent...to collect him.” They paused. “To punish me.”

“You’re a Demon Prince, Remiel,” he said, gently. “I daresay you can take care of yourself. I wouldn’t think you called anyone ‘Master’. Not anymore.”

Impulsively, he took their face in his hands, surprised that they allowed it. Their skin was cool to the touch, and clammy. How strange. They were so warm as an angel.

Remiel clutched at his wrists, but did not remove his hands from them. Their eyes met his, and they were breathing so heavily. Poor child was terrified. They had no idea that he’d already done the worst thing possible to them.

The darkest part of his mind reminded him that they were still pliable. He could easily give them an order, and they would probably follow it. Just as in the Garden. His hands on them--was that not an order? Implicit, unspoken.

Stay still. Be quiet. Watch. This is what’s beneath your skin. Yes, it hurts to be opened like that. Yes, it hurts to be touched inside. Be still. Stay quiet. Learn.

Good child. Very good.

Remiel forced their breathing to slow, and they closed their eyes. Their whole body leaned into his touch. They yielded.

It was laughable. All these centuries, Remiel had plagued Heaven. And Heaven, in response, sent Michael or Sandalphon to sort them out (to varying degrees of success.) Heaven should have sent him.

They still saw him as a teacher. They still, perhaps, saw him as benevolent.

He stroked their cheeks as the tears spilled from their eyes. They dampened his fingers. Israfil knew he could ask anything from them, and they’d give it. Without any hesitation. They would submit to him as they always had. He’d never known this perfect mastery--not over any other creature. Certainly not over the inferior students that he had endured after...

After a choice was made and a coin was flipped. After Lucifer claimed Remiel, and stole them away to the dark of the pit.

Their kitchen was, obviously, not influenced by the décor of Hell. It was very bright. White walls, and dark walnut cabinets. The island in the middle had a deep farmhouse sink and a blue-grey granite countertop. It matched the floors. The stained-glass pendant lamps that hung down looked like elegantly wrought raindrops.

All in all, it reminded Israfil of the clearing beside the waterfall. Stone and water and black wood and white light.

And green. As outside, numerous little planters in copper, porcelain, and tin burst forth greenery. These contained herbs. Israfil recognized basil, dill, mustard, savory, and rosemary.

In the nook with the bay window, a round, wrought-iron table waited. Gabriel, whom he had not seen since the briefings after the failed Apocalypse, stood next to the table. Most interestingly, he wore nothing but his contempt.

“What are you doing here, Israfil?” Gabriel asked.

“I told you to stay,” Remiel said. They pulled away from Israfil and crossed the room to his brother. One hand went to his waist and the other to his cheek. “It could have been someone dangerous!”

“Um...that’s why I’m here?”

“Recorporation is a fifteen minute inconvenience for me, and you? I’d have to negotiate you out of a soul cage!” Remiel’s breathing was noticeably labored as they miracled Gabriel into a fluffy bathrobe, white with lavender piping. They brushed his lips with their own as his hair rearranged itself. “Israfil, coffee?”

“That sounds nice,” he said. And it did.

He sat at the table and watched them work. Gabriel wrenched a chair away from the table and practically threw himself into it.

He watched them with interest as they retrieved the smallest of the apothecary jars that waited against the tile backsplash. Still breathless, presumably from whatever acrobatics they’d gotten up to with Gabriel, they opened a cabinet and pulled down three mugs and a basket of coffee filters. They put a filter in the machine and scooped the coffee in.

“Is that the coffee with the chicory that the locals are famous for?” Israfil asked.

“Absolutely not,” Remiel replied, with distaste. “I’m not so poor that I serve mulch with my coffee.”

“You...buy...things from the humans?” he teased.

“Yes, I’m not a thief!”

Their hair (he’d never seen it so long, bound up neatly behind them) swept across their back quite elegantly as they reached into a lower cabinet for a silver serving tray. He could see the flowers embossed in the silver. They turned to the refrigerator, their pupils were still dilated, in spite of the brightness of the room. And their hands were still shaking as they retrieved the cream and milk.

“I asked you what you’re doing here,” Gabriel repeated, his voice tearing Israfil’s attention away from Remiel.

“Let’s wait for the coffee, brother,” Israfil said, absently. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

Remiel sighed. “He’s not here to hurt us. He doesn’t dawdle. He would have done it already.”

Gabriel chuffed a bit, the overgrown pigeon. What an odd couple. He was such a persnickety, pompous fussbudget--suffering from an overblown sense of his own worth, and Remiel?

Remiel was just Remiel. Capable, and eager to please. Humble and hardworking. Usually, calm.

Not calm now, it seemed. They were panting, still. And he could sense the rapid flutter of their heart as they switched the coffee maker on. They were sweating; it sheened their skin.

Israfil began to suspect that Remiel’s condition was not due to their Fall.

“Remiel, you’re in shock,” Israfil said.

“I know,” they replied.

“You’re what?” Gabriel asked.

“It was the cold,” Remiel explained. “It...does that to me. I’m not cold-blooded. People...exaggerate. But I can’t handle the cold very well. It tends to put me in shock.”

“I wouldn’t have...” Gabriel said. “If I’d known!”

“Why? It did warm me up,” Remiel flashed him a smile. They stopped filling the cut crystal creamer jug and went to him. They draped their arms around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. “Skin-to-skin contact is good for shock.”

“Fucking is not,” Israfil said flatly. He was surprised at the flare of raw emotion that accompanied the revelation that they’d been doing precisely what he'd assumed they’d been doing.

Jealousy. He’d never felt it before.

“I feel better,” Remiel said, with the same stubbornness that he remembered from the Garden.

“You’re not better. Let me see.” It was an order.

They nodded and stepped away from Gabriel. They waited for him, head down, arms slack. There wasn’t any fight in them. There never had been, when it came to him.

What was he jealous of? Gabriel? No, if he ordered them to any task, they would complete it. He could have them spread across this table in front of Gabriel, if he wanted them.

No. Not that. Not something so base as Gabriel’s physical access to Remiel. No.

Israfil had thought that he’d loved Remiel, once. In a juvenile way, perhaps he did. But one doesn’t betray a loved one, doesn’t giftwrap a loved one and send them to Hell.

No. He did not love Remiel. He’d enjoyed them, certainly. But he’d never loved them. Nor anyone, nor anything. He knew what love looked like.

In that, the student was created exceeding the master.

Remiel had loved him, once. Fiercely and fearlessly. In spite of every vile thing he’d done to them, guised in “teaching” and “preparation”. (Or, perhaps, because of the torture that he’d inflicted on them. Humans were like that, clinging to people who pained them. Why would an angel be different?) All of Remiel’s love now belonged to the Angel of the Dawn.

Fear purchased Remiel’s deference and courtesy. Fear caused the student to bow to their master. They feared for Gabriel They doubted their own power, which was good for Israfil. The student passed the master long ago, and he was in no hurry for Remiel to realize it.

They knelt before Israfil, as they used to in the Garden. Their hands went to his knees, and then they turned their eyes up.

He smiled down upon them. They still trusted him.

More the fool they were for that.

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted to CodeGay, who tragically has no gifts and was kind enough to comment on a previous chapter! Thanks, friend!
> 
> So, that's why Beelzebub was panting so much in the last chapter! They were in shock.
> 
> Israfil is not nice. Heaven is not nice. It's all awful.
> 
> Cats with docked ears are part of a TNR program. They have been Trapped, Neutered, and Released. Beelzebub could probably do it themself, but they like giving the humans something to do.
> 
> That's also why they buy things that they could miracle into existence. Aziraphale has standards, and they have standards, too.
> 
> Okay, coffee and chickory. (Famine loves this shit.) Chickory is a "food substitute" that was used to extend coffee by poor people in New Orleans from the 1800's on. The practice is a bit like putting sawdust in flour. "Chickory" is the seeds (chicons) of the chickory plant, roasted and ground. It's mixed in with the coffee. Chickory gives coffee a burnt wood taste, and some people like that. But having chickory in your coffee meant that you were too poor to afford coffee without it. NOLA got famous for chickory coffee, to the point that they're selling it in grocery stores now, premixed and MORE expensive than regular coffee.
> 
> Funniest thing I ever saw (involving chickory) was a drunk tourist ordering coffee that was "just chickory" from Cafe Du Monde. And they did it! Dude nearly puked after drinking it, and it serves him right for being mean to the staff.
> 
> Beelzebub drinks Community. It's strong enough to stand a spoon up in.
> 
> I forgot to mention it on AO3, but I did get my rotten tooth out on the 8th. Yay! 
> 
> The kittens that my GF and I are fostering are thriving. The black one is named Reznor, the orange one is named Weasley, and the calico is named Kathryn.


End file.
